The Hunger: A Collection of Utah Horror

By K. Scott Forman, Johnny Worthen, Jo Schneider and 14 more

The Hunger will consume you.

They say some only hunger for food, while others only hunger for love. But have they ever encountered a different kind of hunger: the insatiable, unstoppable appetite for fear?

Feast upon 24 never-before-published stories and poems fresh from the darkest minds in Utah's horror writing community. Sample the succulent flavors of dread and despair in these terrifying tales of ravenous zombies, piggish parasites, cannibalistic neighbors, and so much more.

When we crave the unnatural, there is no loyalty. There are no rules. There is only…

The Hunger

Not for the faint of heart, The Hunger: A Collection of Utah Horror is sure to satisfy your craving for something that will keep you up at night. Devour it… before it devours you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twisted Tree Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393296539

Book preview

Part I

Entrée

The Food Chain

by Linda Aagard

The cold November wind knifes through his thin windbreaker. Few cars pass this way, fewer still stop for a stranger. He stands on the soft shoulder of the interstate junction, Utah behind him, Wyoming ahead, not a bush or a tree, a house or a store, within fifty miles. Utterly alone in the dark.

He isn't worried.

A black car cuts to a stop beside him, its headlights stabbing the night, tires spitting rocks and gravel in their wake. He smiles as the window opens: a soft, sibilant hiss.

Where're you headed? A light, lilting voice calls from the dark interior.

Nowhere, he thinks, but he says, Cheyenne.

Hop in.

The interior of the car remains dark as the door swings open, and he can see only the driver, a woman, maybe only a girl by the sound of her voice. He slides into the passenger's seat, feels the warm softness of leather under his fingertips, hears the rich purr of a large, well-oiled engine.

Nice.

Very nice, he amends, looking around him, the interior like the capsule of a spaceship. Colored lights and schematic drawings flash from the console that wraps itself around the driver's seat, giving a glow to the interior he hadn't noticed from the outside. The light reflects on the face of the girl, flashing red, green, violet. She turns to face him, a tentative smile on her lips, a turquoise charm glinting in the cleft of her collarbone.

Hi, he says.

She can't be more than eighteen, he thinks. Anticipation ripples through him. He is aware of music, a deep, resonant bass that surrounds him in sound, the kind of sound that feels like money.

Daddy's car?

Lucky for him, Daddy isn't around.

Name's Ricky Lee Brown, he drawls and extends his hand. She looks startled for a moment, then slips her hand in his. Hers is small and cool and dry, as if she'd just washed with a strong soap.

Glad to meet you, Ricky Lee Brown, she says. Her hand rests in his for a moment, then she draws it back, gently, and jams the car in gear. The big machine muscles onto the asphalt.

He clears his throat, ready to give his line of patter, when she says, Do you always announce yourself that way? Give people the full sobriquet?

He whistles. Sooo-ber-gay? Hey, I'm just a poor boy from southern Utah, girl. Where I'm from, everybody's got three names. But you can call me Ricky Lee. For short.

All right, Ricky Lee For Short.

He wonders at the teasing, but her eyes, when she turns to him, are earnest, sincere.

It's just when you said Ricky Lee Brown, it reminded me of a news anchor talking about a criminal. You know how they're always using the full name, like, 'Ricky Lee Brown, the man suspected of the Interstate murders, was arrested today.' Like that, you know.

His stomach tightens for an instant, just a second, really, but a nasty sensation all the same.

He wills himself to relax.

Never thought of it. You're right, though. Why do you think they do that, anyway?

Don't know, she says. Maybe so all the other Ricky Browns don't sue the TV station for slander.

Yeah, right. Guess I'd better keep my nose clean then. Wouldn't want all those Ricky Browns havin' a coronary when they hear their name on TV.

He thinks she'll laugh but she doesn't. When he looks over at her, he realizes she's older than he had thought at first. Maybe twenty-two, twenty-five?

This your car?

She doesn't answer, but smiles and just keeps looking ahead, the glow from the console lights playing on her features. Not his type, his type running more toward the blowzy blond, big tit variety. Definitely not the type that uses words like sobriquet. Sobriquet, hell. But she's pretty in a stand-offish way, her long black hair falling across her shoulders like a curtain and slightly tip-tilted, dark eyes that make the crotch of his jeans feel tighter. She'd be like all the others, though. Those cool eyes would start from their sockets in terror, her lips would beg him, stop, please, stop, don't hurt me, don't kill me...

So, why are you going to Cheyenne?

He jerks against the seat. In his mind he'd been so close, his hands wrapped around the smooth porcelain skin of her neck, squeezing...

Just passing through. A line of sweat trickles down his neck. Too soon. He needs to calm down, level out. He wipes his damp forehead with his jacket sleeve.

So, you've heard about the murders?

Hasn't everybody?

A little thrill of pride tickles his spine.

They grow quiet. Headlights approach, recede. Mileposts come and go. No moon. The feeling he's in a rocket ship hurtling through space comes over him. No more cars pass, no towns beckon with twinkling lights. On I-80 bound for Cheyenne, Wyoming, they might as well be on Mars. He feels the monotony of the miles set in.

If you're hungry, there's fruit and pop in a cooler behind you, she says.

He turns to her, blinks and rubs his eyes. Jeez, what is wrong with him? Young girl? This woman is at least his age, thirty, maybe even thirty-five.

Go ahead, help yourself. Her voice is husky, pitched low. He stares at her. Maybe the crazy console lights had fooled him. But how had he mistaken her voice? Gone the light, breathy tones of a girl. This woman sounds as if she swallows ashtrays.

There, his shaky fingers feel the cooler's pebbled surface. He leans down and turns slightly before he's able to pry the lid open. Cans of pop jostle with apples in a sea of crushed ice. He wrenches one of the Coke cans from its plastic necklace, pops the tab, then glances at her over the rim of the can.

Blinks.

Forty-five, if she's a day.

He straightens up so quickly his head bangs the car roof. Rubbing his eyes, he pulls down the front visor and peers at his own face in the lighted mirror. Nothing is different about him; the same young man he faced in the mirror this morning stares back at him in the glass. No time warp. Had he fallen asleep? Dreamed her youth? To his surprise he feels drowsy. Fatigue pulls at him. Out on the highway, with the cold high desert wind whipping around him, he'd felt great, charged up, alive.

Now, he doesn't feel so good.

With an effort he shakes his head and turns to face the woman beside him. Catches his breath. He is not asleep, and he is not dreaming. Her sagging chin puts him in mind of his mother, dead at fifty.

He places the pop can in the holder beside him, cracks all ten of his knuckles in rapid succession, clears his throat, rubs his Adam's apple. The silence makes him nervous.

So, do you do this often, pick up hitchhikers?

Once in a while. She glances at him, her eyes partly hidden by the folds of her creped skin. He does a quick reassessment. Sixty? For the second time that night, his gut tightens. Time to bail.

By the digital display on the dash and a slight glow to the sky up ahead, he guesses they are approaching Green River. Not a big town, even by Wyoming standards, but it will do.

It's good you aren't afraid. He affects a yawn, stretches out his legs. Lots of women are. That Interstate Killer and all. Did her fingers tighten just a little on the steering wheel?

I can take care of myself, she croaks.

Hey, I didn't mean you couldn't. But some women aren't so brave. Like his mother. She would never have picked up a stranger, or let one in the door. A lot of good her caution had done her. It wasn’t a stranger she should have feared. The day he'd left home—fourteen he'd been—she was making a lemon meringue pie. They'd fought, as usual, and an angry red flood of rage had filled him. He waited, though, waited until she took the golden brown confection from the oven and laid it, oh, so carefully, on the cooling rack before he'd whacked her from behind with his father's ax.

He'd taken the pie with him. Just thinking about his mom makes him hungry.

Green River's up ahead, he says.

Silence.

Ricky Lee sneaks a glance. The old lady, and she is an old lady, no mistake, looks pretty rough, her gray hair standing out from her head like steel wool, her wrinkled hands with veins like ropes clutching the steering wheel.

He tries again. What say we get out and stretch our legs, get something to eat?

Not now.

Get a grip, he tells himself. No way can a seventy-year-old woman hurt him. But he feels somehow as if he is a mouse, not yet in the trap but helpless, having already smelled the cheese.

Reaching down to his ankle, he pulls a boot knife from its sheath. With a quick, practiced motion he turns and jabs it under her chin, the tip just grazing the skin of her dewlap.

Pull over, old lady. I won't hurt you if you do what I say. He is surprised to hear his voice crack, as if he's a skinny, pimply adolescent. Just pull over and let me out.

Her eyes, when she turns to him, are sunk into great hollows, and the look she shoots him makes the blood freeze in his veins.

No.

Okay, old lady, I warned you. Let me out, right now, or I'll cut you, I swear I will.

Ricky Lee gestures again with his knife, but he feels ridiculous. A warm wetness spreads between his legs.

Put your little blade down, Ricky Lee Brown, she rasps. You aren't going to 'cut me,' as you so quaintly put it. You haven't the strength. She adds, almost kindly, If you're hungry, get something from the cooler. You'll feel better.

He doesn't want to eat. What he wants is to cry, scream, open his window and yell, to somebody or nobody, to save him. Ludicrous. He has a knife. He outweighs her by fifty pounds and works out. But his hand droops, unable to hold up the heavy blade, his muscles flaccid and weak. He can't concentrate. So sleepy. No longer able to keep his head up, he rests his chin on his chest. The knife makes a soft thud as it falls to the carpeted floor.

The car stops. She leans toward him, a smile on her cracked lips.

Wyoming State Trooper Mike Hensley whistles under his breath. Well, if this just don't beat all, he thinks. He wonders what Doc Cartwright, coroner for Sweetwater County, will say about this one.

A rancher feeding stock had spotted the corpse early this morning. He'd seen the crumpled form just off the exit and notified the Highway Patrol. Of course, as soon as Hensley received the call he'd thought of the Interstate Killer. The trooper had never found one of those poor unfortunate victims before, but he knows the MO, every highway patrolman does, and this one fits.

His partner, Jim, comes alongside.

Hey, Mike, look at this guy's ID. We've got one. I know he looks like he's eighty, but guess what? He's only 31. He pauses, then continues, And his chest...

Mike scratches his head. Nothing in his experience has prepared him for the sight of the man's hollowed out cavity. What kind of monster steals his victim's heart and youth and leaves no clues behind?

Where're you headed, cowboy? A light, lilting voice calls from the interior of the dark car. He can see, even in the fading light, a girl's face and slender body, soft, dewy skin and sparkling eyes.

Fargo, he drawls, hitching up his pants with his free hand, not believing his luck.

Hop in, she says, and the car's locks click open.

While half-finished horror and mystery manuscripts lurked in her desk drawers, LINDA AAGARD made her living writing magazine articles and press releases. The Food Chain marks her first attempt to bring that hidden fiction out of the shadows. She lives in Draper, Utah, with a daughter and the ghosts of 13 cats.   

The Devouring Maw

by C.R. Langille

Towering mesas of brilliant red stone and stunning vistas greeted them at every turn as they made their drive to the trailhead for the hidden arch known as The Maw. The landscape alone had made the trip worth it for Henry.

Henry’s life-long friend, Danny, had insider knowledge of the place, which was supposedly nestled near the top of an old trail that didn’t show up on any tourist brochures or guide-maps. How Danny came about this knowledge should have been Henry’s first indicator that things were not as they seemed. When questioned about the validity of said arch, Danny would say his sources were legit, and that he had it on good authority that the arch was there. Apparently, these days, hearing something from your brother’s girlfriend’s great-grandfather who read it in an old journal was considered legit. Henry had his doubts, but he enjoyed hiking enough that it didn’t matter if the arch was real or not. Besides, the name of the arch was enough to pique Henry’s interest.

It was mid-day when they pulled off the highway and made the long trek up an unmarked dirt road. It was slow going as the road hadn’t been serviced, well, since ever. Deep ruts cut through red clay soil winding around large rocks. After an hour, they arrived at a towering pine, long dead and nothing but a skeleton of sun-blasted wood reaching into the sky like a claw. Hanging from the bare branches were various animal skulls. The blank eye sockets of deer, elk, coyote, and cougar glared back at them.

Danny smiled and slapped the steering wheel. Just like they said it would be. We’re here!

This doesn’t look like the start of a trail, it looks more like a warning, Henry said.

What, are ye’ yeller? Danny said doing his best Yosemite Sam impression.

No, but I’m not stupid. I don’t think we should go up there.

Oh come on, quit shitting your britches and man up. We’ve come a long way.

Fine, but when we’re being chased down the mountain from some sort of horrible creature, don’t be surprised when I slap you with a big heap of ‘I told you so.’

The road ended at the trees, but there was a slight indentation in the dirt marking what looked to be a hiking trail winding up into a narrow canyon. Danny killed the engine and hopped out of the vehicle. Henry followed and was surprised when a cold wind rolled across his face. It was the middle of July in southern Utah, cold winds shouldn’t have arrived yet. The skies were clear, so it didn’t look like a storm was coming.

The skulls clacked in the tree as the wind moved them, acting as a macabre wind chime. Other than the clacking, the only other sound was the click of the engine cooling. There were no other animals around.

We follow the trail up, and it should lead us to The Maw. At least, I think it will.

How far?

A couple miles. No big deal.

Sure, no big deal. The hanging skulls made it a big deal. The chilly wind whipping through the trees added to the big deal. The deal was big in Henry’s mind. Real big.

Henry’s stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He grabbed his daypack from the back of the Tracker and pulled a granola bar from one of the side pockets, devouring it in two big bites. After tightening the straps across his chest and arms, he took a big drink of water from the Camelback hose. It was a little warm but was nice running down his throat.

Ready? Danny asked.

Henry nodded and they started up the trail. Before hitting the canyon he cast a quick glance back. All of the skulls in the tree had turned to watch them go, and the sight of all them staring back caused his heart to skip a beat.

Hey… Henry said, almost a mumble.

What?

The skulls turned in different directions until nothing looked odd at all. It must have been the wind.

Never mind.

Two hours ticked by, but to Henry it was eons. Each step became harder to take and his stomach hurt he was so hungry. He’d already eaten all of his trail mix and the rest of his granola bars. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and take a drink of water. The trail paralleled the ridge and gave him a view of the canyon floor below. A lazy stream the color of ruddy mud ran a thousand feet below them. He generally wasn’t afraid of heights, but his legs turned wobbly and his vision tunneled.

Henry leaned back so the rough rocks of the mountain scraped his back. The solid surface gave him a small bit of comfort. He focused on his breathing, trying to bring his heart rate back down. As he took deliberate breaths in through his nose and out through his